


shadows of broken oaths

by LeapAngstily



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: (though not really), 2018-19 season, A.C. Milan, Angst, But mostly it's Gen, Character Study, Cliché A Week 2021, Gen, Pre-slash if you decide to read it that way, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 12:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30089370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: Riccardo feels trapped. He doesn’t know what happened or how to make it better, but he knows one thing: Rino has blood on his hands.
Relationships: Gennaro Gattuso & Riccardo Montolivo
Kudos: 3





	shadows of broken oaths

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was _heavy_. If you know me, you know why. If there has been one time when I considered quitting Milan, it was the 2018-19 season.
> 
> Written for the [Cliché A Week 2021](https://montocalypse.tumblr.com/post/645108757089615872/week-10-stockholm-syndrome-stockholm-syndrome) challenge, for last week's theme of "Stockholm Syndrome". I've taken a lot of creative license in interpreting the theme, but who's gonna stop me when it's _my_ challenge?

_“We still need you. Maybe not as first choice, but second or third at least.”_

Riccardo has known Rino since they played together on the national team. Despite the 7-year age gap, they always got along, mostly because Riccardo never let himself get pulled into Pirlo and De Rossi’s casual Rino-torture.

How could he have, when Rino Gattuso had long been one of his ideals on the Milan and Italy midfield? He may not have been one of eloquent words or sublime passes like the men playing next to him, but he fought hard and never went back on his word, which showed a whole different kind of strength.

With Rino, Riccardo always knew where he stood, because Rino held nothing back. He was not one to talk shit behind other people’s backs or spout underhanded insults – if Rino didn’t like you, you could count on him to tell it to your face. He was a simple man, honest to a fault, and Riccardo appreciated him for it.

That’s why it’s so easy to believe Rino – _Coach Gattuso_ , he is now – when he tells Riccardo dropping him from the starting line-up doesn’t mean the club wants him out. The coach says his experience is invaluable in the dressing room, especially now that Bonucci seems to be on his way out, only a year after he came in and robbed Riccardo of the captaincy.

(Riccardo has long since stopped blaming Leo, of course. He has been around long enough to know players rarely make these calls.)

“Alessio is young, he’s gonna need you and Igna to teach him the ropes,” Rino says, a hand on Riccardo’s arm and expression serious. Riccardo looks him in the eye and sees no deception. Not that he expected any – why would Rino ask him to stay if he didn’t want him to?

He smiles and tells Rino he will think about it.

Honestly, he doesn’t like how far down he has fallen in the pecking order over the last year, because he knows he still has a few good years in his legs, barring injuries.

He finds himself wondering if staying will be worth it when he could still give so much more at some other, smaller club. Will he be able to find satisfaction in sitting on the bench, taking the pitch only for the last fifteen minutes if he is lucky, when he knows the other option exists?

On the other hand, Milan is still _his_ _club_. He loves the city and the team – it’s where he was born and where he had hoped one day to retire. He looks at his teammates and feels the bond they share, strong as ever. Over the past six years, he has watched many of these kids come up the _primavera_ ranks and into the first team. He has welcomed new faces and said goodbyes to old ones.

Giving it up now, when he still has so much to prove, doesn’t feel right.

In the end, his wife’s pregnancy is what seals the deal. With a young daughter and another child on the way, neither of them feels comfortable leaving their home of six years. Milan is where their life is, where Cristina’s job is, and where their familial safety net is. If Riccardo leaves the club now, he runs a risk of having to move cities alone, and he has no intention of missing out on his children’s formative years.

So, he informs his agent he will accept the supporting role offered to him, and he tells Coach Gattuso he will stay one more year to fight for his place on the squad. Rino grins and punches his arm, hard enough to leave a bruise, and tells him to give it his best shot.

Riccardo doesn’t even try to duck out of the way when the coach reaches up to ruffle his hair, turning the controlled mess of curls into an uncontrolled one.

This reaction is the final confirmation he needs to know he is making a right call – because if Rino tells him he should fight, then that’s what he is going to do.

_“The squad values you, and so do I. The new management won’t change that.”_

Riccardo hears half an hour before departure that he won’t be travelling to the U.S. for the pre-season tour.

His bags are packed, visa in order, and he kissed his wife and daughter goodbye when he left home that morning, thinking he wouldn’t be seeing them for another two weeks.

And now he is left looking at the backlights of the team bus as it heads for Malpensa Airport.

It’s not Rino who tells him, but one of the lower-level sporting managers, one whose job is nowhere near the squad selection.

_Just a technical decision. The coach needs to test the new guys ahead of the season._

Anger is bubbling just beneath Riccardo’s calm surface because he has been here before.

Only a year earlier, he faced off with the new CEO – now already an ex – who told him he wouldn’t be the captain anymore. Seven years ago, in Florence, the sporting director informed him he would be frozen out of the squad if he refused to renew his contract. Both times, he had stood his ground – he had kept pushing forward even though it felt like there was no one left to back him up.

He is tired of fighting. All he had wanted to do was to play his part and enjoy his final year with his dream club, and then say his goodbyes to the team and fans with no regrets.

Now it seems like that plan has been thrown out of the window, because the management is forcing him out. It’s not just trolls talking shit on social media; this is real – they may call it a technical choice, but Riccardo has been around long enough to know the difference.

If it were a technical decision, Rino would have told him himself. It’s not like him to drop someone and not tell them the reason.

Riccardo doesn’t say any of this to the man bearing the bad news, because he knows better than to shoot the messenger. If Rino did not make the call, then the decision must have come from the upper echelon – the fine offices at Casa Milan or the new owners in the States – and if that’s the case, then there’s nothing short of storming Scaroni’s office that he can do to change it.

When he is alone, he calls his agent and asks him to start looking into their options again. If the management decides to push him out before the season starts, he doesn’t want to be put in a situation where he has only bad choices left. He needs to know where he stands.

Igna messages him from the airport, asking him why he’s not with the squad. Apparently, it was too much to ask for the coaching staff to explain the situation so Riccardo wouldn’t have to.

_“Why don’t you ask Rino?”_ he writes back, because while he knows the head coach cannot be behind the decision, he is still pissed off he got no heads-up from him.

Igna doesn’t respond, probably on the plane already, and Riccardo is almost relieved to be left to sulk in peace.

_“This is Milan, we’re a family. And that means no one gets left behind.”_

Leonardo tells him he’s not part of Rino’s plans two days before the transfer window closes. It doesn’t come as a huge surprise, especially after what happened with the pre-season tour, but the timing couldn’t be any worse.

“You still have lots to give, and we’d be happy to let you walk if you have an offer from another club,” the sporting director tells him with a fatherly smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

They both know finding another club in less than two days is an impossible task, especially after the club insisted on listing Riccardo as injured to avoid any uncomfortable questions about his absence. Riccardo has no standing offers – none that would guarantee regular playing time, anyways – and getting one now, when the season is already underway and most clubs’ plans sealed, is a tall order.

Inwardly, he is cursing himself for believing Rino when he came to him after the U.S. tour and once again assured him there was no plan to push him out. He is also cursing Rino, because had he been honest with Riccardo from the start, then maybe he still would have been able to find a club that would have him.

Now it’s too late, and yet here is Leonardo, telling him to find a new club or be frozen out of the squad, in an eerie reversal of his final season with Fiorentina.

Back then, Coach Mihajlovic had stood up to the management and fielded him against their express orders. Riccardo doubts Rino will do the same, after what he has seen so far.

“Is this what the new Milan is about?” he asks in his silkiest tone, refusing to show just how upset he is. “And to think you’re still trying to ride the Milan family rhetoric…”

“Whatever you mean by that?” There’s a flash of something ominous in Leonardo’s eyes. “We’re just trying to find the best solution for everyone. And until then, you’re still contractually tied to us.”

_You’re under contract, so don’t even think about talking to the press_ , is what Riccardo hears.

“Ever heard of a thing called respect? That used to be a thing here,” Riccardo responds, holding the director’s gaze without blinking. He is on thin ice, he knows, but what more can they do when he is already frozen out – fire him and risk a scandal if he decides to fight them?

“Rest assured, Montolivo, that we hold nothing but respect for you.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Riccardo turns on his heels to walk out of the office. He stops at the door though, hand resting on the knob. “But _rest assured_ , I have no intention of throwing the club under the bus. Because unlike you, I truly consider Milan my family, and I intend to respect that.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer as he walks out, choosing his agent’s number to see if there’s anything they can do before the end of the transfer window.

_“I’m nobody’s tool. Out there, it’s me who calls the shots.”_

Riccardo feels trapped.

It has been a month and the club has finally given up on pretending he is injured. There is only so much deception they can pull before someone starts asking questions. And there _are_ questions, tons of them, but Riccardo has no answers because he doesn’t know either.

Even if he did, he couldn’t say a thing because his contract includes a standard confidentiality clause. He cannot say anything that might present the club or its management in a bad light, so it’s safer to keep his head down and say nothing at all.

He comes to Milanello every day, but always trains alone or with the _primavera_ squad. He’s in early and leaves late, doing his utmost to stay in shape despite the less-than-ideal circumstances. He has long since given up on getting another call-up for the first team, so now he is betting all on the January transfer window. He needs to be ready if a club is willing to take a chance on him.

Rino sometimes watches him train, hanging back after the first team finishes practice. When that happens, Riccardo always pushes harder, extending his scheduled session until his legs are aching and his lungs feel like they are about to give out.

The coach never says anything. Riccardo is grateful for it, because he is not sure he would be able respond with the piercing pain in his chest. There is nothing left for them to say, anyways.

They haven’t exchanged more than a few words since Riccardo’s meeting with Leonardo, despite running into each other on a daily basis. Sometimes Riccardo wonders if it’s just because Rino doesn’t know what to say, or because what he wants to say is something his contract forbids him to.

Riccardo is not stupid. He has known Rino for more than a decade and this – whatever _this_ is – is not something the former midfielder would have signed up for. Even last season, when Riccardo was stuck on the bench more often than not, Rino always remained fair and straight with him, making sure he knew he was appreciated for the work he put in.

Chances are, Rino is feeling as trapped as Riccardo, so it would be unfair of him to blame the coach for his blight.

No, Riccardo does not _blame_ Rino. He is, however, disappointed and angry with him, because he had thought – no, hoped – that Rino would be stronger than this.

Riccardo has spent majority of his six years with Milan standing between the management and his teammates, putting himself in the line of fire whenever he saw someone being treated unfairly. It has put him in hot water more than once, most famously when his falling out with Coach Seedorf was leaked to the press.

With his current situation, he is in no position to do so anymore, and he had hoped Rino would be the one to fill that role – to protect his players when Riccardo could not. He hadn’t even thought about himself at that point. All he had wanted was a sign that Rino had the strength to stand up to the new management, like Mihajlovic had done with Fiorentina all those years ago.

He had wanted Coach Gattuso to put his foot down and say “no more” when the club let Manuel walk. He had wanted the coach to show he had a plan and the pull with the management to make it happen. He had waited to see the stubborn and fiercely independent man he had met in Coverciano on his first national team call-up.

Now all that’s left are these moments where Rino comes to watch him train, and Riccardo stares him down on his way to the empty dressing rooms, neither of them saying a word.

It’s only when he’s alone in the shower room that he can finally let go and feel sorry for himself.

It’s when he lets the warm water hit his face and wash away the tears of frustration, that he can finally admit he had hoped Rino would stand up for _him_.

_“If you want to stay, just say the word and you’ll always have a place in my squad.”_

Rino is watching him again, as Riccardo runs drills and practices set pieces with the junior team, the grass crunching beneath his feet and breath coming out in white puffs in the chilly November air.

They tried Calabria in the midfield today, an emergency solution with an injury list longer than Riccardo’s arm. Riccardo had sat on the stands, watching the training before his own individual session started, silently wondering how much more it would take before Rino had no choice but to call him up.

To end the session, he scores a curling freekick against the _primavera_ goalie. It’s a beauty, the type of shot he only manages one time in a hundred. He cannot even remember the last time he pulled something like that in an actual game.

When the youngsters start their cool down exercises, Riccardo decides to jog a few more laps around the empty main pitch in the hopes of clearing his head.

He has barely been sleeping in the past month, with the new baby keeping him up. He doesn’t mind – he loves being a dad and is happy to do his fair share – but every night he wakes up to soothe his new-born son, he finds himself staying up long after the baby has fallen asleep in his arms, head full of things in no way connected to parenting.

He has no offers for the upcoming transfer window, not even after his agent contacted his numerous club connections to let them know he is fit and available. It seems like no club is willing to put their money on a player on his last legs who can’t even make the bench with his current club.

Maybe they are afraid of going against Milan, when the club has made sure everyone knows he’s not worth their time or respect, his agent said once, though he was quick to assure him it was only speculation and he didn’t _really_ think Milan management was out to ruin Riccardo’s career.

Rino is waiting for him outside the dressing room when he finally leaves the pitches, long after the _primavera_ squad.

“Montolivo.”

He used to be ‘Riccardo’ or ‘Ricky’ to the coach. He wonders if that changed together with the management’s decision that he was not needed, or if Rino is just feeling uncomfortable after avoiding him for months.

“ _Mister_ ,” Riccardo replies, walking past him without meeting his eyes.

Rino follows him into the dressing room. That’s a first.

Riccardo strips out of his sweatshirt and neck warmer before he starts digging through his bag for a towel. Rino stays quiet, and Riccardo is half-convinced he has left the room until he turns around and comes face to face with the coach who is standing only an arm’s length away from him.

“Ah, you’re still here,” Riccardo says to break the oppressive silence.

“Yeah,” Rino replies with a forced chuckle. “I was watching you earlier. That was a fine freekick you took.”

Riccardo raises his eyebrows sceptically and turns back to his bag, kicking off his boots and pushing down his sweatpants. He knows Rino would not talk to him just because of a nice freekick, but he is not about to help him out if there’s something he needs to say.

“You’re on the squad,” Rino says when Riccardo goes to remove his undershirt, making him freeze in place. “For the next match. I’m calling you up.”

There’s a relieved flutter inside Riccardo’s chest that’s quickly snuffed out when he remembers getting a call-up means very little when he hasn’t been training with the first team since August.

“Why?” he asks as he pulls off the damp shirt. “It’s not like you’re gonna let me play, are you?”

Rino doesn’t answer, his dark eyes trained somewhere below Riccardo’s chin, obviously avoiding his gaze.

Riccardo drags in a long breath, silently counting down from ten. “I’ll be there. You better start thinking up excuses for the management, though.”

He turns his back to the coach and undresses rest of the way, wrapping a towel around his hips before heading for the showers. He can feel Rino’s eyes trailing his every move, but he doesn’t spare the man another glance, and Rino makes no attempt to pick up the conversation.

“‘I’m sorry’ would’ve been nice,” Riccardo mutters under his breath as he slams the shower room door behind him.

_“I’ll fight them if I have to.”_

Rino practically grovels in the pre-match presser, citing the midfield injury crisis and Riccardo’s own hard work at training as the reasons for his call-up.

Riccardo finds it pathetic – he’s a professional athlete, not some fresh junior who needs to be rewarded for his good practice efforts – but at the same time he recognizes the excuses for what they are.

An apology. Not to Riccardo for leaving him out for so long, but to the management for calling him up against their will.

Riccardo feels sick to his stomach, and he doesn’t listen the conference until the end.

_“We need you, Riccardo.”_

“Montolivo, Laxalt, start warming up,” an assistant coach calls to the bench.

Riccardo bites back a scathing comment about there being no point when they all know he’s not going to be subbed in. If Rino had any inclination of fielding him, he would have done so from the start instead of playing a fullback in the midfield.

Instead, he wordlessly follows Diego as they join Patrick who is already stretching by the touchline.

It’s almost Christmas, and they are playing Riccardo’s former club in another morbid echo from his past. He had left Fiorentina to live up to his potential, to play in Europe and to win _everything_. Now here he is, warming up for nothing, a winner of nothing, just wishing he could get out.

“Hey _capi_ , you think tonight’s the night?” Patrick asks him under his breath, covering his mouth with his hand to stop cameras from catching his words.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Riccardo offers the youngster a half-baked smile that he knows will not cut it, but it’s the best he can do. “And I’m not your captain anymore.”

The forward purses his lips and goes back to his stretches. They are stuck at a goalless draw on home soil, so chances are Patrick will be needed sooner rather than later.

Riccardo gets on his warm-up drills, waiting for the spike of serotonin exercise used to give him but not surprised to find it missing. There are very few things at the stadium that get his blood rushing these days.

Football used to be his passion. Exercise used to be his escape. Now those are gone, and he is left doing the motions he knows but cannot feel, and it’s all because of Rino and his empty promises.

When Patrick and Diego are subbed in and Riccardo is told to return to the bench, he can feel thousands of eyes on him. This was yet another proof to potential scouts that he is done, not even fit enough take the pitch for twenty minutes when they are literally playing with one midfielder.

He looks up from the bench and finds Rino watching him. There is a deep crease between his eyebrows and his hair is peppered with grey patches that Riccardo doesn’t remember from last season. He looks tired and helpless, and for the first time Riccardo feels something akin to pity for him.

Rino holds his gaze for a second longer, a wordless apology in his eyes. Then he turns to shout new instructions to the players on the pitch, just before Milan concedes the first and last goal of the match.

When twenty minutes later Fiorentina celebrate their victory at San Siro, Riccardo can’t help but feel a vague sense of cosmic justice.

_“I need you.”_

Riccardo is lying on one of the long benches in the Milanello stands after training, tracking the white steam of his breath with his eyes as it disappears into the darkening evening.

It’s February, and he is still here. No offer came in January, just like he had anticipated, but still he can feel the disappointment squeezing his chest. It is an empty, directionless ache that is not quite sadness, not quite anger.

He feels lost, more than anything.

He hears Rino’s steps before he sees him approaching. He knows it is the head coach because he recognizes the exhausted drag of his feet.

The bench lets out a sharp creak when Rino sits down next to Riccardo’s knees where his legs bend to reach the ground. He doesn’t say a word, just tugs his bare hands inside his jacket to keep them warm and stares resolutely towards the empty field.

Most of the players and staff have already left for the day, but Rino seems to have gotten into a habit of waiting out every last player, Riccardo included.

When the coach stays silent, Riccardo goes back to looking at the sky, where the thick blanket of clouds is being painted in deep blues and purples ahead of the nightfall.

“Do you ever miss it?” he asks once the vivid colours have given way to inky greys. “Back when football was just fun and games, instead of the endless politics?”

Rino grunts, and for a moment Riccardo thinks that’s all the answer he is going to get. Then the coach lets out a sigh and speaks, “Has there ever been such time? All I remember is stress and sleepless nights.” He sounds exhausted to the bone, in a way Riccardo has never heard him.

Riccardo chuckles even though there is nothing funny about the situation. “But we used to enjoy it, didn’t we? Football. There used to be a time when it was all I wanted to do. I lived and breathed it, there was nothing that mattered more.”

The coach grunts again, in what might be an agreement. He doesn’t speak up again, but a heavy hand lands on Riccardo’s knee in wordless response. Seems like Rino does get it, what he has done to Riccardo.

The sky is getting too dark to make out any shapes, so Riccardo gives up and flexes his abs to drag himself into a sitting position. He can just make out Rino’s dark eyes in the yellow light shining from the training centre. The lamps around the pitch aren’t on because there’s no more trainings scheduled for the night.

“You took that away from me.” Riccardo holds his gaze in challenge, even though there is no bite to his words. After half a year on the sidelines, he is way past anger. Mostly he just feels spent. “I don’t enjoy it anymore. The thing I used to love the most. And it’s all on you, _Mister_.”

He half-expects Rino to argue the observation, while another half is waiting for him to get up and leave. Instead, Rino squeezes his knee in a gesture that’s almost comforting, and says, “I know. I’m sorry.”

That’s it. That’s all he has to say.

A couple months ago Riccardo would have snapped at him – told him being sorry changed nothing – but now hearing the words he has been waiting for since the autumn sucks the fight right out of him, and all he can do is place his gloved hand over Rino’s bare one on his knee and hold back tears.

“I won’t forgive you,” he whispers into the darkness. Looking down at their joined hands is so much easier than holding the eye contact. “All I needed was for _someone_ to be on my side. And you wouldn’t even give me that.”

He knows there is much more at play here. The spot of Milan’s head coach has always been a windy one. Rino couldn’t have taken his side without facing consequences. Maybe he already has, if the rumours about the management looking for his replacement have any truth to them.

He pushes Rino’s hand off his leg and stands up, straightening his clothes before heading away from the stands, not sparing his coach another glance.

Rino doesn’t try to follow him, and Riccardo is silently grateful for it when the first tears escape his eyes.

_“So, just say the word…”_

They don’t even give him a final goodbye at San Siro.

Not that he had expected to get one after the season he has had, but it still hurts when he watches Igna giving his thanks to the Curva Sud and the stadium after the final whistle.

He has given so much of himself to Milan over the past seven years, in both good and bad. Was it really too much to ask for, to get one final call-up for the last home game of the season, so he could have experienced that rush one more time?

Riccardo doesn’t know if he will ever be ready to step on the pitch again after this year. He used to have such grand plans, about getting his coaching license, and continuing his career in football long after retirement, but now all football reminds him of are the pain and frustration.

Was that what the new management had wanted? To show him his place? Was that what _Rino_ had wanted? How long had it taken for the coach to realize how completely his actions had destroyed Riccardo?

Rino is hugging Igna on the screen when Riccardo turns off the TV and goes pick up his son from the cot.

There might yet come a day when he will be able to face Rino and say he understands why he did it.

But that day won’t be anytime soon.

_“Have some faith in me, will you?”_

Rino walks away from Milan and the final year of his contract.

Riccardo is tempted to call and ask if the management’s meddling played a part in the decision.

In the end, he doesn’t call, but somehow just the thought makes it easier to breathe.


End file.
